Beneath the boughs where whispers weave,
A mossy path, a spell to leave.
The cottage waits, its shutters green,
A realm of quiet, soft, unseen.

The door is charmed with twigs and thread,
An herb-bound wreath above its head.
Inside, the air is thick and sweet,
With candle smoke and earth’s heartbeat.

The shelves are stacked with jars and lore,
Of petals dried and roots of yore.
A cauldron hums, its song a brew,
Of ancient spells for something new.

The hearth glows warm, its flames alive,
Where bread and magic both survive.
Each loaf is kissed with thyme and sage,
A charm for joy, a balm for age.

Through windows wide, the garden sprawls,
With lavender and ivy walls.
A patch of pumpkins, round and bright,
Guard secrets in the autumn light.

The witch, in shawl of woven gold,
Brews stories with her hands so bold.
Her words are whispers to the wind,
For healing hearts and souls that’ve sinned.

A crow keeps watch, its eyes agleam,
A sentry for her midnight dream.
The moon above, a lantern pale,
Illuminates her wistful tale.

Here time is soft, it bends, it sways,
A thread unspooling gentle days.
The hearth witch’s life, both bright and small,
Is magic in the mundane’s thrall.

So come, and rest where charms abide,
The witchy haven, safe inside.
A cup of tea, a spell, a door—
The quiet magic of cottagecore.